A friend asked me to post this chapbook from nearly twenty years ago. The title "Soil of Heaven" pays homage to CS Lewis, who wrote, "a plant must have roots below as well as sunlight above and roots must be grubby."[1] Some of these poems were part of a submission to Poet magazine for their chapbook competition in 1994. --egh
The Soil of
Heaven
© Copyright 1995
Gordon Edwards
926 Rockrimmon Road
Stamford, CT 06903
Backing up
to the earthen door
of life's common experiences
and listening
to the whispers just inside,
these were voices
of the Angels' song
[1] C.S. Lewis, "The Four Loves," Harcourt Brace, 1960, p.. 20
The Body of Faith
Love's Sacrament
A glass of wine
a loaf of bread
two lovers sit
few words are said
A rush of blood
a twinge of flesh
in presence we
two souls may mesh
And this thou
and also not
love's sacrament
no element lost
4
May 81
Sparks
I have seen
the
face of God
in the
burning
passion
of red
hearts
smoking
with life
as the bush
on the
mountain top,
the very
brush
the cradle
of grace.
When we cry
out in
ecstasy
to God in
heaven
and die in
naked truth
is when I
feel
most alive,
real.
With the
grace
of an
artist’s
finger,
His hand
reaches
cross the
barrel
ceiling
and touches
our oneness
in the
dark.
15 May 94
The Seducer
She moves
like a finger
beckoning,
a glance
stirring in
my vision,
heat from
days' repast.
to the sound
of labored
breathing,
worshipping
on my knees --
caught upon
the altar web
I am no longer
free.
28
Feb 94
Christmas
Christmas
I
one moment
of white silence lay
between the
dashing and festivities
on a crisp
New England morning‑eve
as the sun
wakes from passivity
the old
gray house is empty now
so very
quiet, so very large
I in my
castle and you in yours
safe from
the past, feigning courage.
four
authors rehearse the annual news
that God is
with us: emmanuel
when heaven
landed on rocky shores
the myth of
autonomy to dispel.
tonight
I'll hold you in my arms
as
yesterday fades dimly past
and with
the best gift I can give
whisper
softly: merry christmas.
1981
Roots
below
The book jacket said
his poems were accessible,
not the obscure words
and images that dot the fringes
of intelligence and madness.
but the common words,
the ones we might use
to tell a family story,
or what happened
in the movie we saw last night.
It's not surprising
that Emmanuel was often found
in the midst of sinners,
probably drinking a glass
of non‑vintage table wine.
no doubt this incensed
the learned folks of the day,
the guardians of the secret
knowledge
that takes years of study
to travel to the outer reaches
of logic and appreciation,
finally reaching the holy of
holies.
But this cup, this vessel,
stained with finger prints
sitting on the picnic table
of the local pub,
was more apt to quench
the thirst of the carpenter.
If the words of the poet
reach you in such a place,
God speaks with His arm
wrapped around your shoulder,
slaps you on the back,
and whispers a word more divine
than all the mysteries of heaven.
3
Jul 93
Light
Above
I was
turning
the corner.
car packed
to
ceiling
with
my office
remains,
Christmas
two days
away.
Between
seven
and eight,
night had
already
fallen.
There, up
the street
in front of
the church
was a glow
of light,
the detour
unrelenting.
Stopping
the car
with Henley
playing
to the
moon,
the tears
clouding my eyes,
the tree
lit up in
white
the year
falling behind.
14 Jan 94
Christmas
II
Good News sometimes
comes on the wings
of angels,
or the musty air
of a dark stable,
But rarely does
it change a heart
all wrapped up in
sweet success,
as much it does
the fallen star,
clenched in the
fist of a
new Christmas morn.
1991
God
of straw
In a world
of
pinstripe
warriors
ivory towers
and inner
oval
offices,
the majesty
of grace
is that
this
rough hewn
crib
of cattle
feed
and peasant
cloth
holds the
one
who timid
hearts
approach
and even
hold
the naked
helpless
child
as their
own.
9 Dec 94
Christmas
III
Listening
to angels sing
in the fade
of the skyline
hearing
trumpets
on the
white noise of airwaves
to the
cries
of a new
babe in winter
with the
lovers
who kiss in
the morning
for the
song
that comes
dressed
in the
clothes of Christmas
comes to
the tending
1994
Lost and Found
Pilgrim
Barren
woman of the west
came to
worship in the depths
where old
saints tombs
hung like
building blocks
tossed upon
an altar.
she seeks a
child in her prayers
the mass is
said in foreign tongue
will the
old saint make it so?
she comes
to take the broken host
in this
dark space a world away
closer to
the heavenly throne
holy place,
what is withheld?
22
Oct 94
Icons
at the Gate
It offends
our sense of
decency.
the thought
stirs the
stomach,
violates
our sense of
ethics.
the alternative
life‑style
unacceptable,
believed with
quick dispatch.
But this man
this one
speaks
with simple joy
from a Sunday
pulpit
in a proper
white clapboard church,
delighted at the
grace of God
the message rides
along his words
like diamonds atop
a coal car.
So what are we
to do?
the prophet is
not one of us,
the man
is not the
man
and this issue
is not a matter
of principle,
no longer
simply cliched,
ignored,
for now it has
a face.
18
Nov 93
Communion
The vestry
gathered about
the meeting table
like disciples at
the last supper,
where the food
and drink were
not the kind
that satisfied
the hunger,
but the
gristly issues
of gays,
aids,
and pulpits.
we chewed
and grimaced
on its taste,
unable to consume
the spread laid out
in its enormity,
we choked on its extremities.
for this meal
was not
the passioned beliefs
of distant matters.
this one lived
at home,
where we worshipped,
where we gathered,
where we ate,
as one;
where he served himself
to each,
and touched us
in our righteousness.
5
Dec 93
Stewards
The tired
and worn
stressed forlorn,
pallor painted
in ties,
collars white
and matching
faces.
serfs
of business
captains,
leaders who
pose as God's
stewards,
they know
nothing of
the competitor's
heart,
the power of
the human spirit,
the profit
of hope,
it is an ember
in need of
inspiring,
lest it die
a shrinking coal.
9
Nov 93
Looking
for the Saint
We came to
find St. Francis'
and gaze
upon the plaster
murals of
his life,
the
renowned frescoes up above
in the
basilica superiore.
down the
steps descended
the darker
work was done,
here he
preached to the birds
in the
basilica inferiore.
further
still
down to the
chapel of the tomb
hung in
rock below the marble altars
a group of
pilgrims sang and prayed
a mass we
did not understand
but here at
the roots of faith
with St.
Francis now we were.
22
Oct 94
Saints and Sinners
Mother
Marie
Seated in a wheel chair
old woman with the trace
of golden hair,
fierce eyes --
carrying the fleece
of the Lamb
in her lap,
the finger of God
in her grip.
She held on to my sleeve
and wouldn't let go,
it kept me from
falling away
in my embarrassment
to flee from her
impulsive, holy way.
She had to bless me
before she died
whether I sought
the balm
or just to get
the awkward moment by.
Oh, She wouldn't save me
till I let her have
the upper hand.
16
Mar 94
Clyde
A
colleague died
the
other day.
I
didn't know him well.
We
served a common God
in
a white New England church,
where
this final scene played out.
I
am told his life
was
a seven hundred page novel.
I
entered about page six ninety five.
I
hadn't a clue about the plot
or
turns his story took;
but
we heard some vignettes ‑‑
sound
bites in the eulogy.
That
final sentence
closed
the chapter,
as
the words tumbled
to
the paper's edge;
the
period marked
where
the ink had dried.
The
book closed
with
hushed amens,
was
walked to the
shelf
next door,
and
slipped between
two
other tomes;
its
spine marked with
the
years as a title we knew.
How
I wished there
were
more to read.
24 Aug 93
Pearls Around Her Neck
she
sat there
stiffly
upright
with
pearls around
her
neck
as
the wedding guests
flew
in glee,
full
of wine
and
celebration,
on
the dance floor
pulsing
with the
music
loud,
fork
frozen
before
her
open
mouth,
eyes
on the
edge
of modesty
and
disgust.
A
good Christian Lady
did
not
did
not
did
not
with
all the
solemnity
of
a
funeral,
as
if Lazarus' tomb
was
more holy than Cana.
there
truth and goodness
laughed
at the
vast
supply of wine
gone
dry.
10 Jan 94
The care of souls
She handed
out prayer
like the medicine
of the mass,
aspirin to make
the problem go away --
the care
of the soul
at arms length,
pointing at
a photograph
in an album pocket
then the next --
an open Bible
covering her nose
as if an
ailing soul
were catching,
she quickly
turned the page.
11
Jun 94
Agnes
Her world was not much larger
than a ginger bread house,
a kitchen bathed in the smell
of baking chocolate cake,
the bloom of butter cream flowers.
Within these four small walls
deep breathing was understandable.
Here the breads of Christmas,
birthday cupcakes, wedding cakes,
cream puffs and petite fours
were crafted by her gentle hands.
Here was the icing of special days,
days that mattered deeply to us all.
Though none of us were ever content
with ginger bread, here we returned
to lick the batter, savor the special
moments with candles, revelry and song.
In this small cradle we were each reborn
breathing deeply the dust of heaven.
17
Sep 94
Fullman
He was seen as
the gentle man
with a bow tie,
candles dancing in his eyes,
slowly reading stories from
the book on Sunday morn,
he sat with his beloved
in the old white church,
on the left, first pew back.
He is no longer here,
the seat now vacant,
the book lay open bare
without his finger on the page.
How many other tomes
did he touch
with a helping hand?
Some are gathered here
about this simple lectern,
some are scattered 'round about
like autumn leaves rustled
by his gentle breath --
listeners of his words.
You who gather sorrow,
listen to his life,
the light flickers yet
in their stories told.
10
Nov 94
The Tyrant of Presence
It was five years ago
we laid Marie to rest.
I can still feel
the slip of polished wood
she rode beneath
the horizon of the earth
and view.
She still tugs
at my sleeve
holding me captive
for her blessing
and her curse.
Just one more soul,
one more,
just one.
Wanting to escape,
to be free of her,
but remembering
her most.
The frail tight cough
of breath
of the tyrant of presence
wrestled me
to stop
and listen
to the wind outside,
she runs through
my finger tips.
Hold on
grand woman
hold on.
28
Jan 95
Elder Best
"we
have the best church,
the
best preacher
(the
best faith),"
the
feathered elder said,
with
chest puffed
he was
a spring robin
stalking
subterranean prey.
the
church was so white
so
tall , so old,
the
faithful few were lost.
when
it came time to pray,
for
the Spirit to descend
like
tongues of fire,
he
knelt a fallen man
with
arms spread wide
above
his head,
his
eyes squeezed shut,
head
bowed and trembled,
waiting
for the tongues
that
never came
thinking
on what was only best.
16 Oct 95
In the Wilderness
Waiting in line
on March the first
nineteen ninety five
people snaked out
the door
onto the street
the chain pulled in
by the gear teeth
of the church calendar.
"from ashes you came,
to ashes you return,"
said the old priest
for the thousand
and first time,
click, turn, next
(his hearing aid
turned off
to avoid his drone
in the wilderness)
click, turn, next
his thumb smudged
you out with
the charcoal X,
today's mark of
anonymity.
as you stepped fore
a notch and looked
into his silver eyes,
you could see forever
in his blank stare
back over the line
of a thousand
and two
empty faces.
1
Mar 95
Guests
Hovering over
the reservations book,
two angelic maitre d's
looking for the magic
like new travelers
straining
at the airplane window
waiting
for the clouds to part.
discovering
the names upon the list
opening the gates
to the banquet table
then the smile
and the welcome
for the honored guests.
9
Aug 94
Holy Places
Bells of St. Francis'
They stood along the sides
of the old Saint Francis' church
hands wrapped in white felt
gloves
holding golden bells aloft.
We sat in the center pews
a parish on a stage
the choir wrapped around us
our hearts within their grasp.
They rang unto the morning
in a whisper counting beats
feet softly tapping floor boards
too old to lie asleep.
On rising notes of song
we soared to the old white roof
hands holding us high as fists
of God shaking out our souls.
Music only heard as one
from many notes and hands
the bells calling, calling
a steeple in our midst.
5
May 94
Vezelay
Gabriel
blew his trumpet
to the side
while the
half moon
of the
choir
sang the
old hymn
in the
narthex at Vezelay.
The French
verses
without
meaning,
but a
tourist in this place
hearing the
notes
echo from
the arched ceiling
far above,
still touching
the heart
of the stranger.
2 Oct 94
Assisi
We joined a
small
group of
French pilgrims
celebrating
mass
in the tomb
of St. Francis' Chapel
Monday
morning.
Though we
understood
a few words
spoken,
the faith
if the communion
spoke
clearly.
Like the
Assisi stairways
in the
artist's work,
the symbols
of heaven
stretch
from the City of God
to the
streets beneath our feet,
truly holy
ground.
11 Oct 94
At
Grace Cathedral
(when the
doors were opened)
The gray
concrete majesty
of the great
cathedral on the hill
dwarfed the
pilgrims
who climbed
the steep walkways
that lined
the cable-whistled streets
climbing
Ararat to see
if the Ark
still rested
on its
craggy moor.
The
white-haired cleric
leaned
forward from his perch
with voice
bounding from every
arch and
columned trunk
"the
work of God," he said,
"is to
love the hell out of us"
--a life
long work no doubt.
Yet in this
hallowed hall
of
terrifying pomp and feared misstep
one wondered
whether He was
here to
scare the hell out
of us as
well.
But when the
trio of men
standing to
my right
unabashedly
embraced
with echoes
in their eyes,
it was clear
the doors of
grace were opened,
like the
fingers of fog
reaching
over the hills,
hiding and
revealing
the majesty
of the tabernacle,
its hand
wrapped around this
single pew
and touched the gray
tweed
shoulder of the pilgrim,
and said to
those who held
and watched,
no standing
on this mount
save
standing arm in arm.
29 Jan 95
rev.
Listening at the Gate
October
On a New
England road
at the
height of Autumn,
if the
traffic dies
for a few
minutes
and the
wind is held
you can
hear each red
and yellow
leaf as it falls
to the
driveway
like a
crispy snowflake
dancing on
the asphalt.
You
wouldn't hear it otherwise
and in a
week or three,
it will all
be gone.
But if you
listen now
and crane
your neck a bit
you may
hear God whisper
in the
quiet of the fall.
18 Oct 94
Crossroads
Two men stood
beside the twisted wreckage
of what was a late model Thunderbird,
fire engine red.
One, the driver of the Ford,
the other of the semi that reduced it
to flattened metal,
wheels, and broken glass.
They were fast to the crossroads,
a right on red
and a rush on changing yellow.
Eighteen wheels spun the car around
in the howling of a twister
as the Kansas house on route to Oz.
Now both are shaken men,
one who walked away alive
and one just innocent of death.
None of us rushes to the graveyard,
few are given such a pause.
While the wrecking truck
carts away what's left
and the sheriff writes
the three part form
of time and place and cause,
one wonders what these two witnesses
of their intersection
took with them to tomorrow
and what was left behind.
9
Apr 95
The
Prize
Catch it
before it flies away
the tiny silver moth
that disappears
when it moves front
the printed flower wall
lost in the
busy color patterns.
waiting until
it moves again
scanning left
to right --
it was here
a moment ago!
reaching quickly
sometimes yields
an empty hand,
and then the
patience pays
the watchful eye,
it brings its
brief flutter
into the grasp.
placing the
prize on
paper white
may be a mounted
trophy held still
by careful pins
but when left to fly away
may leave the
dust of heaven.
1 Feb 95
The
voice in a crowd
God is
silent
in the
silent places,
the smooth
running
streams
of days.
It is
rather in
the din of
pain and
tragedy
that he
rings
with the
bells,
breaks our
ears
with his
silent presence,
takes our
hand
and holds
us to
his breast.
Listen.
He whispers
with the
thunder.
24 Jul 94
Earthen vessels
The priest says
we live our lives
in earthen vessels,
and I smile
as I remember the
church school verse.
now I am fascinated
by the nuance of the wine
that fills the jug.
but it is wine I never drink
and I would guess wrong
if asked to pick
the year and grape
from a single sip.
for less frivolous pursuits
at the heart of moral matter --
how I ache to state
the simple truth.
forgetting that this
holy water is not yet wine
and this earthy glass
is dark
the light within,
so dim.
20
Oct 95
Whispers
Listen closely
to your lives,
to each
voice,
each song
and the harmony
you make
together;
amid the
happiness and joy
the tragedies
and rain,
look.
there is
truth here
and goodness
and love
among the we.
1
Sep 93
The Soil of Heaven
He was
found
backing up
to the earthen door
of life's common experiences
and listening
to the whispers just inside,
these were voices
of the Angels' song
and he was thirsty
for the Holy sound.
29 May 95
Gordon Edwards
Gordon
Edwards is the nom de plume for
Edward G. Happ, a businessman from Stamford Connecticut. Mr. Edwards has been
writing poetry for the past thirty years, and was most recently a 1994 runner
up in Poet magazine's annual American Chapbook contest. A graduate of the
Liberal Arts College of Drew University, he began writing poetry in the eighth
grade, at the encouragement of a junior high school English teacher.
"It is the incarnation of grace in the
simplicity of ordinary language and experience, the 'Word ... dwelt among
us,' that drives my writing. A reviewer summed up my poetry as 'a kind of
sophisticated simplicity.' My intention
is not to be 'sophisticated,' but to strive for two things in each piece. On the first reading I want readers to hear
something that connects with their own experience. On second reading I hope
they see with me the more that is 'enclothed' beneath the common surface."
